I met Sam Perry many years ago when I interviewed Viola Frey. Sam was her assistant right up to the end of her life. My recollection of his ceramic sculpture from that visit is of large, rather dull and blocky pieces. I recall looking at them, hoping to find something that spoke to me, when suddenly I spotted a couple of large, unfinished, bowl-like sculptures carved from wood. They jumped out at me with their simple and elegant beauty. A few years later, I had the pleasure of meeting Sam again at one of sculptor Ann Weber’s art dinners. Ann, a former student of Viola’s (and a former potter), is friends with Sam. As with all of the art dinners at her studio (Ann and I collaborated on these), this one was a delight.
About that same time, I’d seen an exhibit of Sam’s sculpture at a space in downtown Oakland. By then he’d switched to wood and the work I saw was a clear continuation of the two pieces I’d seen a few years earlier. Somehow the wood brought out the artist’s visual poetry that wasn’t so visible in the clay.
Then just recently and almost by accident, I was treated to another look at Perry’s work. Suzanne Tan and I were putting together our second Local Treasures show for the revitalized Berkeley Art Center [see page 57]. Like the first one, most of the artists had been featured in works & conversations. The exhibit would be made up entirely of the work of ceramic artists and we had decided to feature some of Viola’s haunting ceramic plates as part of the exhibit.
It turned out that Sam was still there in the old studio that had belonged to Viola. She left her building to Sam after her death, and her work is all stored there. So after selecting five of Viola’s plates for our Berkeley Art Center exhibit, I asked Sam to give me a little tour of his own work. It didn’t take more than a few minutes before I asked him if we could feature some of his work in our new issue.
Returning a couple of weeks later to take some photos, I noticed a wooden skateboard leaning up against a worktable. I had never seen one quite like it. “Is that yours?” I asked. It was.
“I’m a surfer,” he said. (Lots of skateboarders are surfers, too, he told me.) Somehow this piece of information resonated perfectly with the intuition I had about this artist. Paddling out into the breaking waves at land’s edge and riding them is one of the most poetic of activities imaginable. I can’t help but feel there are many artists among surfers. The beauty of it and the constant creativity needed each moment belong in the realm of art.
I’d tried my hand at surfing when I lived in Southern California, carting my large old balsa wood board on my ‘53 Mercury 60 miles to Doheny State Beach just north of San Juan Capistrano. I still remember my joy when, from the highway, that first sight of the ocean showed the telltale signs of a good swell in the form of white lines of surf.
Some surfers carry their art back to shore, back home and, in some cases, to their shops or studios where they make surfboards or skateboards or even pieces of sculpture.
“I grew up in Hawaii,” Sam told me. He took up surfing about as soon as he could haul a surfboard into the water. His father made canoes, he told me. So the water connection goes deep.
Sam is not a man of words. “I’m a maker,” he explains. It’s true of many artists. Words are not adequate. But then, words are never really adequate for the things that art most truly does.
Perry told me he’d get to his father’s shop around 8 in the morning. “But my dad didn’t get there until 11.” So in those three hours he fooled around making things to suit his whim.
“Look at this,” he said, pointing to a little clay figure on a shelf. “That’s the first clay piece I made.” So clay and wood. And the call of the ocean. These are the deep touchstones of the artist’s work. And wouldn’t it make sense to think that the beauty in the roll of a wave, in the ocean swells and in the dance of light as it plays across the water’s surface, that all of these have made their contributions to this artist’s sensibililty? I have no doubt.